I was staring at myself in the mirror while I washed my face I think and that's when I realized- that's the face of grown me, that's the grown woman I always hoped I'd see when I was a child. I spent so much time over the years waiting for things to change, not necessarily in a negative way most times but just looking in the mirror and thinking "it is not permanent, my face will change, my personality, my interests" but I think I've only now realized that that "someday" is here now. The grown woman looking back at me is the face that will stay for the next few years, the voice too, the personality and the things that make my heart feel warm. I've built an empire of all things that make me, me. Maybe that's not so bad.

The world spins. The world spins and I'm 22. I can feel things, I can cry, I can get upset, i can feel like the world is against me but this time it's different- there are responsibilities, work to get done, a schedule to attend to.

At 13 years old you can hide under the covers, cry your heart out and only come out when you want dinner but at 22 you carry the same frustrations your younger self did and do not have the privilege to hide under the covers because the world keeps spinning and you're supposed to be part of this great big world where every step, every decision and every day you wake up means something.

I will take my time, I will plant my feet on the ground. I will learn how to regulate my emotions and carry whatever I have in my mind and heart with a face of indifference, when I get home I'll have time to ditch the fake indifference. Just like the people on the train I see every day; they have their own problems, their own insecurities, their own nightmares but they still sit there. Still, with music blasting in those earphones.

There’s a quiet kind of sorrow in feeling like you’re already falling behind when you’ve barely begun. Like no matter how fast you move, you’ll never catch up to the life you were supposed to have by now. Your heart is heavy with the weight of days that passed too quickly, of chances you didn’t take, of a version of yourself you thought you’d be but somehow never became.

The world keeps spinning, indifferent to your panic, your longing, your exhaustion. You tell yourself there’s time, that you’re still young—but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like the best days are slipping through your fingers, like you’re watching the sun set before you ever got to stand in its warmth. And no one seems to notice that you’re drowning in the rush of it all, lost somewhere between who you were and who you’re desperate to become.

There’s a quiet kind of loneliness that comes from being surrounded yet unseen. It’s not the absence of people, but the absence of warmth in their presence. Smiles that never quite reach the eyes. Conversations that skim the surface, never daring to dive deeper.

It feels like a puzzle with a missing piece—only you don’t know what the piece looks like, just that its absence leaves a hollow space in you. You catch glimpses of it in the way people hesitate before answering, in the way their laughter falters when you speak. Something, some invisible force, keeps them at arm’s length.

Maybe it’s in your voice. Maybe in the way you carry yourself. Or maybe it’s something deeper, something written into you that you haven’t learned how to read yet. The not-knowing is the worst part. If you could name it, you could fix it. But all you have is the quiet suspicion that you are slightly out of tune with the world, a note that doesn’t quite fit the melody.

And so you drift—never truly alone, never truly with.

have you ever watched a movie that just made you cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry

I write this with tears in my eyes rolling down my cheeks and a heaviness on my chest, like a comforting stone. I just finished reading Heaven by Mieko Kawakami. I can't even explain what it did to me. There were no big events, it was the definition of the word "mundane" but everything about it makes me want to cry and cry and cry and just not stop. First because more than anything I miss the characters already, I wish I could read it again for the very first time and also because of how well the pain and quiet ache was described in the book. How zoning out was described, how much meaning it gave to my own day to day feelings. Nothing was kept pretty too, I like that. Without spoiling, I'm insanely happy for the main character. God. This book destroyed me

Life has a way of leaving its marks on us—some light as whispers, others deep as echoes that never quite fade. I wish I could tell you that every hardship vanishes with time, that each struggle dissolves like mist in the morning sun. But the truth is, they linger, not to weigh us down, but to shape us into something stronger, something wiser.

The pain may not disappear, but it softens. The burdens may not vanish, but they become easier to carry. You learn which battles are worth your energy and which ones can be laid to rest. You come to understand that the world does not demand perfection, only persistence. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that what once felt unbearable has become nothing more than a distant murmur in the story of who you’ve become.

I wish I were easier to love. I wish my heart didn’t feel like a maze with dead ends and hidden traps. I want to be someone who doesn’t hesitate to believe the words “You’re enough,” someone who doesn’t question if they really mean it. I want to stop holding my breath, waiting for the moment someone grows tired of the weight I carry.

I hate how my insecurities speak louder than the kindness people show me. How they whisper lies into my ears until I believe I’m too much, or not enough, or somehow both at once. I wish I could silence those voices. I wish I didn’t overthink every word, every glance, every moment of quiet between conversations. I want to be the kind of person people describe as easy to be around, someone who doesn’t leave others second-guessing their every move.

It’s a strange shadow to stand in, knowing you’re not the first thought, not the first page in someone’s story. Someone else was there, setting the tone, shaping the narrative. Their laughter, their memories, their presence—these ghosts linger, even when unspoken. You try to convince yourself it doesn’t matter, that what’s past is past, but the mind doesn’t always listen.

You catch yourself comparing, imagining details you don’t even know are true. Did they love her more? Does a part of her still live in their gaze, in the way they hold you? The weight of someone else’s history, pressed between you, reminds you of your own fragility.

It’s not envy exactly, but the quiet ache of wanting to be the first to leave a mark, the first to be chosen without hesitation. And yet, you are here now, wrestling with the pieces left behind, trying to believe that being next doesn’t mean being less.

There was a time when the mundane felt monstrous. The simplest tasks loomed large, casting shadows far greater than their form. Each day held a quiet dread—the phone calls I didn’t want to make, the conversations I didn’t know how to have, the endless parade of little things that felt impossibly heavy. I feared being lost in the routine, suffocated by the ordinary. But here I stand, proof that I outlasted every fear I once carried.

There are moments when life feels like a slow drift, as though I’m watching myself from somewhere above—a silent observer perched on a quiet ledge. I see my body move through the hours, rising with the sun, going through the familiar rhythm of tasks, conversations, routines. There’s a detachment, a curious distance, as though my spirit floats a few steps behind, tracing my outline without ever quite merging.

And so the days pass, each one folding into the next like waves slipping beneath an endless horizon. From above, it’s all so quiet, so calm. But beneath the surface, I wonder: will I ever catch up to myself? Or will I always be the shadow watching, the silent presence floating through the moments I never quite touch?

When I was small, the world loomed vast,

With whispers of laughter that never would last.

While others played in sunlit fields,

I found solace where pages yield.

In quiet corners, alone but free,

Books opened their arms to welcome me.

They spoke in tongues both fierce and kind,

And painted worlds within my mind.

Through ink and paper, I learned to dream,

To drift down rivers, to climb moonbeams.

No need for crowds or playful cheers,

Just silent tales to calm my fears.

When shadows crept and silence grew,

Their steady voices carried me through.

In castles, forests, skies of gold,

I found a courage that made me bold.

Now grown, I hold them close, still near,

Their worn spines whisper all I hold dear.

For even now, when the world turns gray,

Books are my refuge at the end of the day.

A safe space then, a safe space still,

Their magic bends to match my will.

Through every season, joy, or strife,

Books have been the friends of my life.

There’s frustration in forgetting someone's voice. You try to recall the way they said your name, the rise and fall of their laughter, but it comes out distorted, like listening to a song played underwater. You thought you’d remember forever, that their voice would linger in the chambers of your mind, clear and vivid. But now, only fragments remain—pieces of sound that don’t fit together anymore. And in that realization lies a quiet grief, not loud or sharp, but soft and weighty, like fog resting over a still lake.

Forgetting a voice feels like losing something intangible yet profoundly personal. You wonder if you’ll hear it again someday, not in reality but in a dream or a sudden moment of clarity. And until then, you carry the silence where their voice used to live, learning to find comfort in its quiet presence.